The Revenant
- Â
- I am the dog you put to sleep,
- as you like to call the needle of oblivion,
- come back to tell you this simple thing:
- I never liked you — not one bit.
- When I licked your face,
- I thought of biting off your nose.
- When I watched you toweling yourself dry,
- I wanted to leap and unman you with a snap.
- I resented the way you moved,
- your lack of animal grace,
- the way you would sit in a chair to eat,
- a napkin on your lap, knife in your hand.
- I would have run away,
- but I was too weak, a trick you taught me
- while I was learning to sit and heel,
- and — greatest of insults — shake hands without a hand.
- I admit the sight of the leash
- would excite me
- but only because it meant I was about
- to smell things you had never touched.
- You do not want to believe this,
- but I have no reason to lie.
- I hated the car, the rubber toys,
- disliked your friends and, worse, your relatives.
- The jingling of my tags drove me mad.
- You always scratched me in the wrong place.
- All I ever wanted from you
- was food and fresh water in my metal bowls.
- While you slept, I watched you breathe
- as the moon rose in the sky.
- It took all of my strength
- not to raise my head and howl.
- Now I am free of the collar,
- the yellow raincoat, monogrammed sweater,
- the absurdity of your lawn,
- and that is all you need to know about this place
- except what you already supposed
- and are glad it did not happen sooner —
- that everyone here can read and write,
- the dogs in poetry, the cats and the others in prose.